Tony Armstrong

It was yet another hot day in Yemen, with the soldiers who stayed in the Post trying to stay under the shade of palm trees or metal awnings that seemed to instead radiate heat. The military post was quite close to the locals' residential area, and it would be quite hilarious if a war photographer captured a moment from camp, how the British soldiers were in uniforms that even allowed Knee-lengthed shorts, something many locals there called shameful but wore them at times in mimicry, but were still sweating buckets, while the locals looked almost mockingly fresh.

Tony had his top uniform jacket, with the one arrow that showed his rank of lance Corporal, on the hood of the giant military Jeep he was currently under with some tools splayed down around his lower half. One could only see his white undershirt that had a few dark splotches around, and his metal dog tag that occassionally showed as it was dangled to the side of his neck when he leaned down to pat the sandy floor to look for the necessary tool.

He did, however, notice a shadow of a person getting closer to the jeep. Thinking it was one of his fellow comrades, he called out to be heard over the clinking of his metal tools against the monstrous pipes and engines,

"I thought I told Smithy I'm not going to eat whatever hell you've brewed up, ye tosspot."

There was a silence, until the person cleared their throat, making Tony hold the front of the Jeep to bend to the side.

"A matter of time before you've gotten us all killed you cu-" The sight of a stranger staring down at him, was surprising, to say the least, making him blink a few times. In only a moment, he was able to tell that this person had nothing to do with the military post. But was the person local? They weren't British, he didn't think, then what were they doing here? Amidst all the thought, he only just realized he called a probably lovely person nearly a barrage of swears...